


Masked

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Period Typical Attitudes, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Crowley has been trying to woo the beautiful Lady Aziraphale Fell for what seemed like ages, to no avail. As a lowly stable owner, his station just wasn't high enough, and maybe his care just wasn't enough. After his most recent refused proposal, Hastur and Ligur hatch a plot to get them both to understand that maybe station doesn't matter as much as they think it does.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 126
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Masked

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work for the good omens holiday gift exchange!
> 
> This is for [katartstrophe](https://katartstrophe.tumblr.com/) | [schneezusweiss](https://schneezusweiss.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! I hope they enjoy it, as well as everyone else. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays! Whatever you celebrate this winter, I hope you have a wonderful time.

Not a one of the horses in the stable had been looked at, cared for, or put away for the night. It had been an hour since Crowley returned to the stables, a droop in his step, his face red. And oh, the bouquet of flowers in his hand even seemed to wilt with his body—he wasn’t supposed to still have the bouquet. He was supposed to have given it to the lady of the manor, to Aziraphale Fell of the Fell family, the family of a rose wrapped dove. It was a beautiful crest, but in the end, it was the crest of a rich family. Crowley ran a stable.

Now, after the third rendition of just what had gone down, Crowley’s bouquet was lying stomped at the bottom of one of the horse’s stalls, and Crowley was lying propped up on a pile of hay with a particularly miserable look on his face. He hadn’t been crying, per say, but it was also dark out, now. He could have been crying, and his captive audience wouldn’t have been able to tell.

There was Ligur, who had been Crowley’s best friend since childhood. It wasn’t so much that they had ever wanted to be friends, but they grew up in service to the same household. When Crowley had his big idea, Ligur had followed, and there they were. Crowley owned a stable, and Ligur worked with him. It was a principle thing, really. Ligur had sunk too much of his hard-earned time and sweat into Crowley to leave him on his own. That, and Ligur was the only one between them who could make a quick decision.

Hastur came later. He’d gone about things the normal way: applied to a position at the stable. Ligur had wanted to hire him, and Crowley trusted Ligur’s judgment. It had been a horribly fast ride, but Hastur was there, and he didn’t seem to be leaving. Even if, at the best of times, he was more apt to getting others to do his work for him than he was to actually do his own job. Crowley and Ligur were both aware of it. They both did nothing to stop it.

Now, they were a reluctantly inseparable trio. At some time or another, all three of them had hated each other, loved each other, and hated each other again. It was in the obligation of inseparable that Hastur and Ligur hadn’t finished up the work and gone home, because Crowley was absolutely heartbroken. It wasn’t the kind of heartbroken he’d been as a teenager, when a local girl would step on his foot. This was a real, genuine heartbreak.

“You should have seen the look on her face,” Crowley cried, for the fourth time. “Like I was suggesting something horrid.”

“You’ll get over it,” Ligur offered, helpfully.

“I think this is the one that kills him,” Hastur rebutted. “I say we leave him here to rot in the hay. By morning, bigger pile of hay.”

Crowley made a whimpering little noise, at that. It was pathetic, given his position and his stature and just about everything else about him. But, it was apt. Crowley had all but perished, save for the fact that he was quite well enough to breathe and continue on in his long lists of complaints.

Aziraphale Fell was the first-born daughter of the Fell family. It was her responsibility, her  _ duty, _ to marry a man of position and money. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t have money, though, it was nowhere near to the amount that the Fell family had. The issue was that Crowley had earned his money. He’d risen from nothing and built up his business, his stables, and reaped the rewards. They would never be rewards to match the money of an old-money family, not like the Fells.

Aziraphale’s duty was not to marry a man of money. It was to marry a man who had  _ more _ money,  _ more _ status, and  _ more _ everything than Crowley would ever have. It was probably a kindness that she hadn’t laughed right in his face when he’d asked for her hand. Reminding him of both their places in life, both of their duties, had been a mercy for his ego. Still, Crowley lamented his loss. Aziraphale Fell was beautiful, and he would never be the one to call her his.

That was the thing, too—Crowley didn’t even  _ want _ to call her  _ his _ . He wanted to stand beside her. To hold her hand. Maybe kiss her on the lips every now and again. Whatever she wanted of him, he wanted to do that. He knew there wasn’t a suitor in her name who wanted the same. She had three vocal suitors, already. Four if anyone were to count the pathetic moaning of one Anthony Crowley, and no one did.

There was Beelzebub, the youngest of the suitors. Lord Beelzebub of the Southern Lands was a prince of some renown and some power. Marriage to them would have been the biggest combination of families in recent history. But, for as eccentric as the Fell family was, they cared for their children. Lord Beelzebub didn’t seem a likely match; it was respect that had their proposal entertained. Their invitation sent out.

Michael was a lady of court, and a powerful lady, at that. Her family was known for their military prowess, and Michael had seen a few battles herself. It meant the scrutiny she was under was even worse, however. Aziraphale Fell’s  fatherfarther had been a Sergeant in his youth, and where age had withered everything about him, his mind for battle and judgment still seemed around and in good shape. He had been impressed, though. Michael was welcome. Her invitation sent out.

The final suitor was Sandalphon, an older Duke of the Northern Lands. Older wasn’t an exaggeration; he was short, balding, and fat. He had a tooth replaced with gold to fawn his wealth, and that was all anyone had cared about. Sandalphon had an enormous hoarding of wealth—his lands were rich. His people, rich. He was rich. If anyone were to stand a chance at winning Aziraphale Fell’s hand, it would be him. No matter how loathe the idea might have been, it would be a combination of families, of wealth, and Aziraphale’s life would be well off. Sandalphon was the most prosperous of prospects. His invitation sent out.

Crowley was nobody, nothing, and had no invitation. He hadn’t even known about the invitations. He was too caught up in his loathing, his whining, his simpering. He was the mysterious, fake, fourth suitor—the only one who  _ knew _ Aziraphale, personally. He’d met her time and time again; she was such a curious girl and always asked questions. Crowley had been so forthcoming with his answers that she’d even taken to visiting the stables. Crowley still remembered teaching her to set her horse.

Maybe he’d taken her curiosity the wrong way. Maybe he’d seen her in the wrong light. She’d just been anxious for knowledge, for freedom. At only eighteen, she certainly wouldn’t want to waste her only moments of freedom and choice on a man of twenty-five. Not when there was the looming threat of being married to a man far passed his prime looming over her. Crowley didn’t exactly know that, but there was always a suspicion about that. It was the unfortunate reality so many young ladies and men faced.

At that point, through Crowley’s postulating of what horrible, wrinkly old, disgusting men Aziraphale might face in her marriage, Ligur and Hastur had had about enough of him. It wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had turned him down, though it was the first  _ proposal _ . The issue was that Crowley thought it made him a worthless, unwanted fool. Ligur and Hastur could see the truth of it, because it was painfully obvious. With that in mind, they decided to finish the work that needed to be done in the stable, and they would leave when they were done.

Crowley was still lamenting by the time the stable’s work was complete. He hadn’t even  _ noticed _ his audience had disappeared to finish the work. He noticed when they came back to him, though, even if he didn’t look shocked by the reappearance. Hastur pulled Crowley off the hay—because as much as it might have been funny to watch him rot down into the pile, that would waste perfectly good hay. Ligur, in turn, swiped hay off the back of him.

“Go home, you big idiot,” Ligur huffed. “Go cry into your pillow or something. I’m sure it cares.”

“I hate you both,” Crowley muttered, but he didn’t complain. If he had been drunk on actual alcohol and not just an overwhelming rejection, someone would have had to take him home. As it was, Crowley left on his own.

The night wasn’t quite deep enough to call it a day. Not with how much of it had been wasted, anyway, listening to Crowley complain. Ligur made an executive decision to visit the tavern that night, and if Hastur wanted to come along, he was certainly welcome to. There was no question; Hastur would never pass up a chance to drink at the tavern. Especially not when Ligur was clearly paying. If he wasn’t paying, he would be paying by the time Hastur was done.

Crowley was the blindest man to walk and work as well as he did. He lamented about what a drab catch he was every time Aziraphale turned him down for whatever scheme he had at the time, but Ligur and Hastur had always seen the truth. It was  _ duty _ that kept them apart. Aziraphale looked at Crowley with just as much longing, if not more, than he looked at her. One could only imagine the fine things a lady like her could get up to in the privacy of her own room, with the thought of Crowley.

Issue remained that Crowley was too dense to realize that terribly obvious fact. Aziraphale’s older brother had come down to the stables with her, once, and Ligur had overheard  _ his _ concern about Aziraphale’s sudden infatuation. Gabriel wasn’t entirely known as a cruel brother; nobody thought that he would be one to force Aziraphale into an unwanted marriage, but their parents certainly weren’t listening to him.

“We should do something,” Ligur muttered over his pint.

“About Crowley? Impossible,” Hastur snorted. “He’s too stupid, first. Second, not lady material.”

“He’s plenty good enough for the broad.” Ligur didn’t combat the other issue—that Crowley was, really, just too blind to see how in love with him Aziraphale was.

“Isn’t there that ball they having? The big fancy one with the masks?”

“It’s called a  _ masquerade.”  _ Ligur rolled his eyes. “What about it?”

“It’s for finding a suitor for the pretty lady. Sounds easy enough.”

“Like Crowley would be getting an invitation to that. Too fancy for him. He works with  _ horses. _ And us.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like we can’t do a little work, ourselves. Ball’s not for a few days.” Hastur shrugged. “Someone’s bound to be here by now.”

Ligur’s eyebrows shot up. “We’d need to steal an outfit, too?”

“Stealing’s what I’m good at.” Hastur made his point by ordering another round for himself on Ligur’s coin. Ligur didn’t even mind it, not for Hastur’s idea. He’d buy rounds the whole night, for Hastur’s idea.

It was the perfect solution to Crowley’s problem. Present him in such a way that Aziraphale couldn’t deny his potential, and she wouldn’t be able to help herself. They’d fall in love all over again, and when Aziraphale realized who was beneath the mask, they’d run away from Aziraphale’s duties to be married. At least, that was the hope. The stories said that’s how it would work out. Given how they were two sides of one very idiotic coin, it was a shot in the dark.

“How good at snooping are you?” Ligur asked.

“Very good. Lurking is also a specialty.”

“You’re sick tomorrow, then. Find out what we can do, we do it in the evening. I’ll deal with prince mope.”

They had their plan, and they shook on it. They toasted to it over a fresh round, on Ligur’s dollar, and they discussed it in some depth. Hastur would find them a few candidates on his sudden sick day away from the stable, and in the evening, he and Ligur would decide on a victim. A few adjustments, a little bit of a copy, and that victim would be without an outfit and without an invitation. Crowley would get them, and he would waltz into the ball to steal Aziraphale’s heart—again. They had three days.

They had only two days when they next met. Ligur’s excuse had gone right over Crowley’s head, but that hadn’t been hard. Crowley was still depressed but, also, sleep deprived. It made it too easy to pull one over on him, and they had. Now, it was just a matter of figuring out the rest.

Hastur had found more than acceptable potentials, but one stuck out, while he explained. Raphael was a young man from a distant kingdom, something or other; Hastur didn’t have the exact details. What he did know was that Raphael had been invited on social convention alone. The Fell’s didn’t want him there, and he didn’t want to be there. He was staying in a manor just outside of town, which had been given to him by the Fell’s for this exact situation. He’d had to travel the farthest, so he needed a place to stay.

Ligur stared at Hastur, from across the table. Hastur had dumped the personal information of  _ three  _ potential suitors, who were not the three who had been publicly announced—if Crowley had half a mind, he would have heard of their announcement and the ball. Where Hastur got that information was far beyond Ligur, who was just hoping for a place to ransack in the middle of the night.

“Excuse me,” Ligur held up his hand, cutting Hastur off in his explanation of the  _ room _ in the manor that Raphael would be staying. “Just how the fuck did you find this out?”

“Do you want to hear about how I seduced the postmaster, or do you want to help Crowley get a girl?” Hastur said, his face a statue of seriousness.

“I—okay, yeah. You’re right. Raphael seems like a good hit.”

“Right, I know. As I was saying, he’s staying on the second floor in the east wing. There’s a back way to the manor, too.”

Ligur was done asking Hastur how he knew this. He didn’t want to know, if it was anything to do with the implication he’d just threatened. It was best to just accept that he’d done something good and go with it. They didn’t have time to be wasting arguing about the ethics of Hastur’s methods.

After they each finished their pint, they headed out of the tavern. Hastur knew the way to the manor as if he’d been there before. Maybe several times. Ligur didn’t want to question it, lest he receive another horrifying seducing the postmaster answer. He just accepted it as a god sent convenience and followed. Nothing looked like it was going to pose an issue, as long as Hastur knew what he was doing.

The only issue was that Hastur never, really, knew what he was doing. Ligur had learned to believe that far too long ago, and he’d just conveniently forgot when it looked like Hastur had done something amazing. Where they were left, after arriving at the manor, was that Raphael was staying on the  _ second _ floor. It wasn’t as if Hastur had thought to bring a ladder. Still, he insisted that he had everything under control.

There were barrels stacked outside the house; they would use those. Hastur would stand on top of them, and he would hoist Ligur up into the window. Ligur would sneak in, steal the things they needed, and they would get out as fast and mysteriously as they came. Not that Ligur believed that for a second, but it was better than the alternative: giving up. That wasn’t going to snap Crowley out of his whining.

So, they stacked the barrels into a nice firm base that they both could stand on. Hastur hooked his hands together and squatted down, and that should have made everything easier. What neither of them accounted for was that Hastur wasn’t exactly known for his outstanding, brutish strength, and Ligur wasn’t exactly a small man. The first hoist, Hastur couldn’t even get Ligur off the ground. The second hoist, they managed a bit better. Three hoists, and Ligur was up.

“We’re going to need to go higher,” Ligur hissed down. “I can’t reach. I need to get up on your shoulders.”

“You’re going to break my entire fucking back,” Hastur replied through gritted teeth. “Why did you decide to do this anyway? What the fuck is so important about getting into this ball?”

“What are you going on about?” Ligur had hoisted himself up to Hastur’s shoulders, who was bracing himself on the wall if the house in hopes that his back  _ didn’t _ shatter.

“I thought you liked that goddamn tavern girl—you know the one. She’s got the orange hair, and she cheats at cards like no one’s business!”

“I—what!?” Ligur looked down. “Just because you suck at cards doesn’t mean she cheats, and this wasn’t  _ my _ idea!”

“Then why are you so desperate to get into this ball!?”

“It’s for Crowley you fucking idiot—stop talking! I’ve almost got it.”

Ligur stretched up until he could grab at the windowsill. From there, he could handle himself. He just needed one more little boost from Hastur, and he could pull himself up. All those years of throwing hay, or so he’d like to say. The window wasn’t difficult to get open; it was easier to get the window open than it was to balance himself in the inch-wide space of the windowsill. But he did it. He’d rather suffer this than have to listen to Crowley whine about his lost love for one more day of his life.

Inside, the room clearly belonged to a rich man. The colors were deep and vibrant, there were things gilded with all manner of jewels and gold. It wasn’t fair, really, but Ligur wasn’t here to judge. He might stash a little coin for himself, but it was the invitation that mattered. It wouldn’t be hard to find the actual masquerade outfit, not when the armoire was right there and colored in gold. The invitation was just parchment.

Ligur tried the nightstand to no avail. He tip-toed around the room and tried bags, thrown clothes, and chests. He went slow and quiet, the only sound in the room that of Raphael’s  _ snoring _ . He snored. Ligur would have to laugh about that later. The most important thing was that he  _ kept _ snoring. If he woke up, Ligur was going to spend the rest of his life in jail.

Then, he tried the desk. In hindsight, he should have tried here first, but it was the farthest from the window he’d pulled himself through. He’d been hopeful, thinking that he could find it without risking a walk across the entire manor, but it was a sturdy built place. The floorboards didn’t creek, and the house hardly made the sounds of settling. It was just Raphael snoring. The slight scuff of Ligur’s boots against the wooden floors, but that was so quiet. The only reason Ligur could hear it was because he was trying to ignore the pounding of his heart.

The invitation was in the bottom and squeakiest drawer of the desk, but Ligur snatched it. He didn’t bother closing the drawer. Raphael would find his stuff stolen whether everything was left open, anyway. Opening things was risk enough, closing them was even worse. Ligur wouldn’t take that. Not with the armoire still left to check.

Crowley wouldn’t be allowed to walk into a masquerade without an outfit and a mask. Raphael would hopefully have both; luckily, too, from what outline of him Ligur could see beneath his blankets, Raphael and Crowley had similar builds. The outfit wouldn’t look like it was stolen or badly tailored, which certainly wouldn’t have been a good impression for Crowley’s would-be blushing bride.

Their only hope was that Crowley had no sense of fashion, or, his sense of fashion lined up with whatever crap the nobles were doing. The outfit Ligur found was hideous, and the matching masked looked like it’d been made straight from a dead snake. If that’s what the nobles were into, that’s what they were into. Ligur wouldn’t complain. He’d take. He certainly took. He  _ did _ nab a few coins for himself, too; it wasn’t hard to find a rich man’s coin pouch.

The invitation went straight into Ligur’s jacket, but the mask and the suit went right out the window over Hastur’s head. Ligur couldn’t call ahead and risk waking Raphael, so, he certainly got his laugh out of watching Hastur sputter and curse about the sudden rain from above. That grabbed Hastur’s attention well enough. When Ligur came next, Hastur was more prepared to catch him. It did end with both of them toppling right off the barrels and into the grass—but as long as the suit wasn’t stained, they could laugh about it.

“This was such a stupid idea,” Ligur laughed to himself.

“Your idea,” Hastur reminded, and they both knew he was lying. Ligur had no reason to go to a ball.

Crowley, on the other hand, would have the night of his life. He would bathe, pull up his hair, put on this stupid outfit, wear this stupid mask, and he would  _ woo _ Aziraphale Fell of the Fell family and rose wrapped dove. He just didn’t know it yet.

In the morning, Crowley would know. He would know, precisely, because Ligur and Hastur presented him with a badly wrapped box that was topped with the invitation. Crowley stared at it for a good, long moment before he looked at Ligur, who was holding the box. Ligur implored that he take the invitation on top with a nod of his head, and Crowley did just that. Realistically, they should have been working. This was more important.

Crowley took the invitation and read it. He read it twice. He read it three times. Then, he dropped it back on the box and looked at Ligur, again, with a horrid look of disbelief. That was an invitation to a masquerade ball, inviting one Raphael as a potential  _ suitor _ for the daughter of the Fell family, Aziraphale Fell. The invitation was stamped with their official crest, the rose wrapped dove, and signed personally by Aziraphale’s eccentric father. It was real.

“No,” Crowley said.

The only reason he didn’t leave the stables entirely was because Hastur scrambled around to stop him. Hastur grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him back towards Ligur, the box, and the invitation.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Ligur frowned. “This is the perfect solution to your problem, and I didn’t fall out of a window for you to bugger off. Take the damn box.”

“You want me to dress up and pretend to be some puffed up rich guy named Raphael?” Crowley frowned. “No, no. I can’t. People would get the wrong idea.”

“Getting the wrong idea is the point, you idiot.” Ligur pushed the box forward. “You have to show that puffed up rich lady you love that she can’t deny you.”

“That seems a bit. Forceful.” Crowley sniffed.

“That’s only because you’re too stupid to realize she swoons over you on a daily basis. Fuck off.” Ligur shoved the box into Crowley’s arms so he had no choice but to take it. “That ball’s tomorrow, and you’re gonna be there, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m not gonna be some smelly rich Raphael,” Crowley muttered, because that was the biggest problem.

“Whatever. You pretend to be Raphael long enough to get in the door, and then you can tell the pretty fancy lady whatever you want. It’s a masquerade ball. She won’t know who you are.”

Hastur stepped aside, then. Now that Crowley had given a reluctant agreement, he was off for the rest of the day. Hastur and Ligur would take care of the stables and the employees and everything else. Crowley would go off and spend some time reconciling with himself and making himself pretty. That, and neither of them wanted to listen to this new thing he was choosing to complain about—as if the name really mattered. He could pick his own name, if he really wanted. Just not Crowley.

The real problem, of course, was Crowley’s disbelief in Aziraphale’s reciprocity. He couldn’t fathom a world where she would look at him and  _ really _ , truly, love him. There was no fathomable way for that to have taken place. She was leagues above him as a person; she was beautiful, intelligent, funny. Crowley didn’t have much to offer but a good one-liner, at the best of times.

Still, for this to work, he was going to have to trust what Hastur and Ligur told him. They believed that Aziraphale loved him. At least liked him. He could work with like. Like always had a chance to blossom into something more, and it was quite easier to believe than the idea that Aziraphale had to fan herself in his presence, which is what Ligur would have him believe. He wouldn’t. Not unless he saw it, anyway, and then he might just fetch Aziraphale some water.

He needed to calm his nerves. He had time to calm his nerves. Twenty-four hours of time, to be exact. A little extra; he needed to read the invitation again. It would be time spent pacing about his house and fretting about what he was going to do.

Crowley knew how to dance. He’d picked it up from time in the taverns, but it was still dancing. He’d never had formal ballroom classes like  _ Raphael _ must have, but he could waltz. Aziraphale probably wasn’t going to pick out dancing as a deciding trait, so it didn’t matter if he had two left feet. Just that he could fake his way through it. He would dance with Aziraphale, that was for sure. Every suitor would get a chance, but Crowley would ensure he was the last one.

Crowley also knew how to eat, but this wasn’t a formal dinner affair. It was likely that Crowley would be eating tiny mouthfuls off of fancy, silver trays and starving for it. Maybe Aziraphale would feel the same, but he wouldn’t make any judgments. She was always a bit larger, but he  _ liked _ that. He’d heard some of the suitors didn’t, and he wouldn’t be one of them. He was going to snatch one of those stupid, tiny mouthfuls of food right off the platter and feed one to her.

All he had to do was wait. And it was an arduous wait. It was painful. Long. Anxiety ridden. Filled with what-if thoughts and different scenarios that would never happen, but Crowley thought about them anyway. He picked them apart, piece by piece, while he worked into the ornate suit. The perfect size. He scripted himself while he fitted the strange mask onto his face. Aziraphale would be wooed, and Crowley was going to be the one doing it.

Crowley didn’t arrive in any fancy carriages with servants, but nobody seemed surprised. Not when he produced his invitation and  _ Raphael’s _ name was said with a sort of snide huff. Crowley wasn’t Raphael, so he didn’t really care what anyone  _ thought _ of Raphael. All that mattered was the invitation was taken, and Crowley could be whoever he wanted.

His own name had left his mind, almost immediately, when he entered the great hall. He’d known the Fell’s had a penchant for spending, but he had never expected a room like this. Golden and white. Marble. Pillars. The floor was so clean that he could see himself reflected in it. The chandelier from the top of the room hung down and  _ sparkled _ , it was so jeweled. Crowley had to keep his jaw from dropping at the sight of it all; it was the most beautiful room he’d ever seen.

The people, too. Oh, the people wore beautiful things. He couldn’t see their faces, but their dresses, their suits, their canes. Everything was colored with vibrant fabrics and jewels. The masks were large and ornate: some were like animals where some were like people, and some rather looked like nothing much at all. But they were beautiful. Crowley was one of them. He’d never  _ been _ one of them before, but he was, now.

He walked in, amongst the beautiful people in their beautiful clothes, and he felt just as perfect. No one looked at him like he didn’t belong. No one questioned him. People even stopped to greet him—he kissed ladies’ hands; he shook hands with lords. He bowed, he greeted, and he felt like a veritable king. He was a king in search of his queen, but the ball hadn’t officially begun.

Crowley mingled. He didn’t just walk around or find a place off to the side to stash himself. He actually mingled with a glass of wine in his and the occasional tasty mouthful. He even took the time to meet a few of his competitors, and he wasn’t entirely impressed. Not when he was beginning to feel a bit prideful; dressed like this, Crowley didn’t feel much like Crowley, and he could supremely believe that Aziraphale loved whoever he was in this mask. He’d have to act quick.

There was a call, then, for silence. Aziraphale’s parents were introduced. Her brother—Gabriel. Then, the fanfare. The final call. The call to order. Aziraphale was about to be introduced, and it was the spectacle of the evening. After that, it would go about as any sort of dance. Aziraphale could mingle as she saw fit, and her parents would meet her suitors, as well. She would dance. She would rightly laugh. Crowley would fall in love with her all over again.

When she stepped out onto the balcony of the stairs, Crowley’s heart stopped. She was wearing a white dress with golden embellishments. Her hair was done up on top of her head with only a ringlet strand to hang around her neck. She had been done up in makeup, in large earrings. Her dress had wonderfully large sleeves with ruffles. There were ruffles lining her collar, which Crowley dreadfully tried to ignore. It was a square collar, and it framed Aziraphale’s breasts beautifully. No doubt, she wore a boosting corset underneath the dress.

Crowley was going to be the one fanning himself if he didn’t find something else to focus on. There were six other suitors she needed to get through before she could find Crowley. He wanted to be her last dance. He wanted to be the face that she remembered, even if she couldn’t  _ see _ his face.

The hours would pass in seemingly abject misery, while Crowley skated around the room. He danced with a few ladies. He danced with a few lords. He stuck to himself, to the side of the room with a glass of wine. It was a painful thing, to watch Aziraphale dance with others. She never seemed happy, though. There were even times where she’d adorned her mask—a frilly, feathered thing done up all in white and gold, like her dress. She looked like an angel.

But those painful hours came to an end, when Crowley watched Aziraphale step away from her dance with Sandalphon. This was Crowley’s chance. To be her last dance. And he was going to take it like a madman, before Aziraphale could decide she was finished and retire. He would  _ not _ let Sandalphon be the last thing Aziraphale remembered—he was old and creepy. Crowley had a much better chance on a much smaller coin, he was sure.

“Excuse me, Milady,” Crowley said. When Aziraphale turned at the sudden introduction, Crowley had bowed.

“Oh, hello,” she replied. She smiled when Crowley came eye-level with her. He’d always been a bit taller, but she had to have been wearing heels.

“You’re a hard lady to come across,” Crowley commented. “I’ve been hoping I might have a dance.”

Aziraphale looked around before she looked back at Crowley. “I was told there were seven to meet, this evening. You must be the final one. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She gave a deep curtsy.

Crowley took her hand, then, and led her out onto the floor. She followed wistfully, like she knew something was different about this one. He didn’t feel like the other suitors had; he had an air about him, like freedom. He didn’t walk so stiffly or talk so fine, but when he smiled, Aziraphale swore she saw the whole world in the shine of his teeth. She didn’t need to wear her mask, for this dance. She wanted an unobstructed view of her partner.

Crowley’s hair was only half up, in a loose bun, and it left Aziraphale feeling familiar. The redness of it. The soft look of his skin, what she could see in the breaks of clothes, mask, and hair. When Crowley put a hand on her waist, she didn’t hesitate to dance close. The air seemed to bid that she do it, that she make sure their dance was less a dance and more of a sway to the slowing songs of the night.

“Have we met before?” Aziraphale asked.

“I should remember a time I met someone like you,” Crowley replied, just like he’d scripted. “Hang me if I’d forgotten.”

“Oh,” she laughed. “You’re a flatterer then, aren’t you?”

“Flattery is only flattery if it isn’t true, Milady.”

She gave him a flushed grin, her cheeks rosy from the blush and the heat.

“I must ask,” Crowley said, suddenly, lacking the fake posture he’d put on a moment ago, “why the masks?”

“Oh, well, my parents believe that I’ll pick someone without knowing their name or face. That I should pick someone that I liked without outside distractions.”

“Have you, then? Picked someone, I mean, Milady.”

Aziraphale grinned again. “I might,” came her vague reply. “If I don’t, they’ll pick for me. I know who they’ll pick.” Aziraphale went a sudden somber.

“Might I inquire?”

“Sandalphon. I’ve just finished dancing with him.” Aziraphale grimaced. “They think I won’t know him for the masks, but you can smell the musk, I swear.” Aziraphale’s face suddenly went a deeper read. “Oh! My, I apologize, Milord. That’s no way for a lady to talk.”

Crowley just laughed, and it seemed to put Aziraphale at ease. “I’d like a lady who talked like that more,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what I think, but everyone can use a little perking up, hm?”

Aziraphale hummed in response. “Indeed,” she said.

They danced in relative silence, after that. As the song slowed, so did their sway. Until the song disappeared altogether, and the world went silent with it. Suddenly, with the press of Aziraphale’s cheek to Crowley’s shoulder, they were alone in the great hall. All the guests had vanished, and Aziraphale’s family had gone with them. It was Crowley, his hand on Aziraphale’s waist, his other in her hand, and Aziraphale. Nobody else existed, and the silence was bittersweet.

Crowley knew it wouldn’t last, the night. It would disappear at the end of the ball, and there was only a chance Aziraphale would know him. He had to believe that she would, though, because he didn’t think he could live without this. The feel of her against him. She was so beautiful, and the wind of her breath was so warm. Crowley felt the butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. He was already quite glad that he hadn’t messed something up beyond repair, but the night wasn’t over, yet. It would be.

Aziraphale didn’t want the night to be over any more than Crowley did, and she didn’t even know it was Crowley. She knew Anthony J. Crowley, from the stables. She remembered all the times they had talked, laughed, the times that he’d taught her. The times that he’d offered her things: gifts, trips, a proposal. She’d wanted to accept it so bad, but Anthony J. Crowley wasn’t for her. He didn’t meet the standards, and it had always ached to know that.

If this man she danced with now was even the slightest bit like Crowley, though, she’d marry him. She’d marry him with all the joy in her heart and try to think as little about a different life as she could. Until then, she didn’t want the night to end. It was so easy to close her eyes and think this man was Crowley, to pretend she was a poor tavern girl who was just looking for a husband. It wasn’t the truth, not with the weight of her dress, her hair, but she could pretend.

As long as the night was silent. As long as the world was just the two of them. She could pretend.

Eventually, the music and the chattering returned. Aziraphale pulled her head away from Crowley’s shoulder and looked at him, through the mask, and tried desperately to discern who he was. She didn’t know him, truly, she thought. She hoped, anyway, because the air was so familiar. The smell. The body. She wanted to know this man with every passion in her body, she did. If she had her pick, it would be this one. This one, or she would never marry, she was sure.

“What is your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“I thought the point of the masks was, so you didn’t know,” Crowley grinned.

“Please,” she said, gripped into his lapels. “Tell me. I must know your name, Milord. I should die without it.”

The world chattered and sang and danced, but nobody watched. When Crowley leaned down and Aziraphale let him kiss her, there wasn’t a soul in the room who noticed their scandal. It lasted mere seconds, but it was a mere second of flame and dancing wings. Aziraphale wanted that kiss as many times as she could have it. A kiss after kiss after kiss—she needed Crowley like she needed air. That shocked her, when she opened her eyes and the kiss was gone. This, surely, wasn’t Crowley.

“Samael,” Crowley told her.

With that, Crowley pulled away. He didn’t wait to hear her response, nor to see the look on her face. He’d done what he’d planned to do. He would be the last face she remembered, the only thing she wanted. If it was meant to be, she would find him in the stables, and she would know him. Crowley was sure of that.

It had been a week since the ball, when Aziraphale came down to the stables. She was dressed in her finest riding gear, and Crowley helped her pick out the finest horse he had to offer. He helped her saddle it, mount it, and settle herself against it. She didn’t know him.

It had been two weeks since the ball, when Crowley heard the news that spread through the town. The search for the mysterious man Aziraphale had given her heart to—and Crowley regretted ever telling her that fake name. They would never find a lord named Samael, because he didn’t exist. He ran the stables down the hill, just outside of the main street. When he talked about it, to Aziraphale, who’d come again to see the horses—she didn’t know him.

Crowley wanted her to know him. Crowley wanted her to see him for who he was and love him, all the same. She hadn’t. She came to the stables as she always had and rode the horses, talked and laughed, but she didn’t  _ know _ . There was no way that she would know, or if she did, that she would love. Crowley believed that, again. He should have always believed it. He’d gone to that ball believing that things would change, and all he’d done was send them on a wild goose-chase for a lord that didn’t exist.

Crowley had been stupid, and he knew that. He kept it to himself, and on her return ride, Crowley helped Aziraphale down from the horse. He let his touch linger just a bit longer in her hand, hoping that she’d recognize it. She’d held his hand for their dance; they’d swayed of nearly a half hour together, to the tune of the band. Surely, she had to know him.

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled. “It’s always a pleasure in the stables.”

“I’m glad you think so, Miss Fell.”

“Sometimes, I wish I could live a life this simple. I’m sure you’ve heard the news all over town,” Aziraphale sighed and shook her head. “I made the mistake of telling my parents about a man I met at the ball, and they’ve been crazed ever since.”

Crowley wished he could tell her that she  _ could _ live a life this simple. Or he could live her redundantly complicated life with her.

“I’ve heard the news, yes, Miss Fell. It seems a tragedy.”

“It’s alright. If we turn up nothing, they’ve already agreed my hand to Sandalphon of the North.”

Crowley grimaced.

“It’s been lovely, Mr. Crowley. I should be getting home, though. Thank you, really. For everything.” Aziraphale smiled at him.

Crowley longed to reach for her hand and press his lips into her rings, her skin, even her nails. He wanted to cry out to her just how much he loved her; how much he would give up just to be with her. That time was passed. In a week’s time, they would find that the Lord Samael did not exist, and Aziraphale would be wed to Sandalphon by the end of the month. Crowley had messed everything up. He watched her leave the stables.

When Crowley turned back in, his hands tangled in the horse’s reins to lead it inside, Ligur was standing in front of him. Ligur, with his foot tapping and a very ornate snake mask in his hand, was frowning. He’d watched the entire ordeal go down, and he wasn’t pleased with how easily Crowley was willing to give up. Crowley just had to  _ prove _ , once and for all, that Aziraphale loved him—the size of his wealth, be damned. Her parents were kind people; they would let it slide

“Take it, Crowley,” Ligur growled. “Show it to her. She’ll know. Let me run the stables for a bit.”

Crowley didn’t have to think twice. He’d ruined everything, but he could fix it. He could change it. He reached out for the mask and grabbed it fast enough to nearly knock it to the ground, but he had it. He had it, and he turned on his heel to run. Aziraphale couldn’t have gotten very far; she always walked to the stables.

She hadn’t even made it to the hill, and Crowley was thanking any god he could think of. Someone had to be on his side for this to work out. Someone had to be hoping that Aziraphale would know him almost just as much as he hoped.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted. She stopped and whirled around; eyes wide at the call.

“Why, Mr. Crowley, this is very irregular,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he panted. He didn’t even have a thing to say. All he did was toss his mask, and it landed in the mud at her feet. The snake mask. Aziraphale stared at it with wider eyes.

“You know where the Lord Samael is?” Aziraphale asked, watching Crowley come to stand at his full height.

“No! I mean, yes, technically—fuck it. Aziraphale, that was  _ me _ . I snuck into the ball on someone else’s name and costume. I shouldn’t have done it, it was wrong, but I had to. I had to— _ see _ you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale blinked, her lips parted in a silent gasp.

“I thought that maybe if you could  _ see _ me without the—the stable thing, the poor thing. I thought something would change. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have deceived you, but you’ve never—you’ve never entertained me. I shouldn’t be mad, it’s your right. You don’t have to give time to a man just because he looks at you, but I just—” Crowley cut himself off. “I’m sorry.” All of it was bullshit, and he knew it. He should have never done something like that. He should have never thought himself so entitled to a lady’s love that he could break his way into her ball and dance with her, like that. He’d  _ kissed _ her.

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied, softly. She stared down at the mask between them.

“I wouldn’t ask you to forgive me.”

“Oh, Mr. Crowley, there’s nothing to forgive,” Aziraphale insisted. “I—I’m not happy with what you did, but I’m glad for it. I—I’ve never been very brave, you see.”

Crowley dared a glance at her. She had her hands wrung out in front of her, her eyes off to the side, and he face was a dusting of pink. Could Ligur have been right?

“I never knew how to be honest with myself, Mr. Crowley. I think I’ve loved you for a very long time, but I just wasn’t sure how to say it. You must understand, there’s so much between us, I couldn’t—I couldn’t just  _ not _ fall in love with you.”

It was Crowley’s turn with a wide-eyed stare. Aziraphale reached out and took his hands in hers, squeezing around his palms and thumbing about his knuckles.

“I can’t pretend any longer,” she whispered. “If that was truly you at the ball, my parents will understand. I’ll make them understand. Gabriel will help—” she stopped short at the sudden closeness.

Crowley was hovering inches in front of her face with wide, golden eyes. The look of a starved man, really. It was the look she’d fallen in love with so long ago. A man who hungered for something and would do whatever need be done to get it. Crowley had a drive, a determination, a  _ passion _ . Aziraphale had always thought Crowley matched her very well.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, “kiss me, Mr. Crowley, I—”

“Anthony,” he told her. “My name is Anthony.”

They kissed, immediately. They only parted long enough for Aziraphale to remind that  _ her name _ was Aziraphale. No more  _ Miss Fell _ , or she’d have Crowley’s head. But oh, they kissed after that. They kissed and kissed with Crowley’s arms about Aziraphale’s waist, and her hands in his hair. The world stopped for them, again, in that moment. The world would stop for them whenever they asked.

Aziraphale had made her decision. She would have Crowley as her husband, no matter what path she had to take. Her parents would understand. Gabriel would help them. She didn’t care for status—they’d  _ find _ their own status. They’d take some money and turn Crowley’s stable into the biggest success story to be ever told, and that would be their status.

**Author's Note:**

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